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Terry O'Leary Nov 2013
PROLOGUE
The Flame, aflicker, licks and flays,
illuming evening’s negligees
With braided curls she swirls and sways,
and flits and floats in light ballets

           APOLOGUE
A Flame, to conquer creeping fog,
flew dancing towards a random log
Her flight perplexed a leery frog
beside a silent somber bog

The Flame, a ripple, all alone
alit on leaves where birds had flown
The aching twigs began to moan
A rising breeze began to groan

The Flame arrayed an ancient oak
with torrid tongues and veils of smoke
A ****** bailed, the dam had broke
The leery frog soon ceased to croak

The Flame uncoiled and lashed midair,
consuming crowns with utmost care
A crazed coyote fled her lair,
left in the lurch bewildered bear

The Flame, unfurled, went wild and grew,
enkindled cats and caribou
Remaining... not a residue,
as reeking vapors bade adieu

The Flame revealed her strength unshackled
Flora, fauna crisped and crackled
Fire Witches clucked and cackled
One more forest stripped, then hackled

           EPILOGUE
The arsonists were well aware
the Flame would travel everywhere
The weirs are gone, the land is bare,
and soon you’ll find a city there
Poetic Artiste Jul 2014
The Insecurities are flourishing,
A gorgeous garden is my mind—
But the weeds keep growing in.
Media like kryptonite—weakening my self esteem.
—Thoughts of a young child never knowing what to believe.

I lie awake in bed at night staring at the ceiling.
If only the notion could suffice in finding the words—
For the void I'm feeling in my life,
But it isn't simple.

Pure corruption of my mind,
Perfect pictures,
Flawless figures,
The images I can't erase.
Uncomfortable in my own skin—
What do I do to feel safe?

Do I drown myself in ink—to cover up the imperfections?
Instead of talking—walk and let my skin scream the self-expression?

Or do I return to the blank stare in the mirror?
The words are on repeat.
Who am I to think I’m beautiful—when I myself can’t see?
Who am I to think I'm valuable—when there is no self-confidence there?
Who am I to think I'm worthy—when I myself don't feel?

The insecurities keep flourishing.
A gorgeous garden was my mind,
But the weeds kept growing in.
Media like kryptonite—weakening my self esteem.
Thoughts of a young child,
--Never knowing what to believe.

One night as I lie awake—I hear my subconscious scream out to me.
The most attractive people do the ugliest of things,
The true beauty you want is what’s imprisoned within.
Why stop your happiness to return to a place—
—A place where you feel so alone?
Why do the tears flow?
You're killing yourself—
And you fail to realize
Your own self-doubt is the knife!
Pessimism,
The negative thoughts building inside—
They’re just as bad as the razorblade that kisses your skin as you sit in silence...
Why are you hurting yourself?
Temporary pain is only a distraction,
You were blessed and shaped by the hands of God.
What more could you possibly ask for?

Appearance is not everything.—
Stop the self-consciousness and live your life.
—acknowledge that you —are your worst —enemy...

I open my eyes.
The cries have ceased,
I return to the blank stare in the mirror.
The words are on repeat.
Who am I to think I’m beautiful—when I myself can’t see?
Who am I to think I'm valuable—when there is no self-confidence there?
Who am I to think I'm worthy—when I myself don't feel?

But it’s different this time,
My reflection speaks.
Saying no—
Who are you not to?
Your imperfections are beautiful.
Beautiful enough for the heart that is meant to love you,
Believe in yourself.
No more self doubt,
No more lost soul.

—No more insecurities flourishing,
A gorgeous garden is my mind.
No more weeds keep growing in,
Media is not my kryptonite,
No more weakening of my self esteem,
Thoughts of a young child finally unshackled —and free.
ConnectHook Sep 2015
ϖ↑∅⊕↓☺↨☼♀


The dawn is nigh at hand. The clouds
begin to lift above the grange.
Arise, O Phoebus, bless the crowds—
let poultry roam the range.

I’ll bind a broom of gathered hay
to sweep the hen-house free of hate.
Let roosters hail the crack of day
and chicks with ***** tempt fate.

A fractured self and a challenge hurled:
they left the shell, but found it rough
because our bigoted barnyard world
cannot get queer enough fast enough.

They flutter through the *******’s farm
subverting gender’s useless role.
We feel their pain, and mean no harm—
yet question this progressive goal.

They cluck a brand-new barnyard song:
Gender Identity Obsolete!
(As long as they claim God hatched them wrong,
biology signals their defeat.)

While poultry scratches rhymes for “hen”
and chicks are combing crests for *****
let’s ring the dinner bell and then
we’ll synchronize the global clocks.

Let Mankind’s unmanned race delight
at Jesus’ gender-free return.
Soon Africa shall see the light
and Araby’s sun more brightly burn.

Then dawn shall break o’er Russian plains
to liberate the Tartar races;
loose their limbs from Gender’s chains
to stride with polymorphous paces.

China too, and Southeast Asia
swift shall follow in their train
celebrating ***-aphasia
joining in the West’s refrain.

Hindu multitudes will rise
to vanquish gender, caste aside
and shake the slumber from their eyes
with metro-ambisexual pride.

Carib isles, with Latin kingdoms
From the tropics to the mountains
Shall announce they too are Wisdom’s,
drinking from de-gendered fountains.

Juveniles, raised to simply be
shall pioneer new modes of life;
explore horizons happily
set free from biologic strife.

Then shall our earth, in glad array
***** dirt upon Tradition’s tomb;
unshackled from that dark dismay
to grieve—but nevermore exhume.

Alas, the global dreams descend.
We’re back in the barnyard, gender-queer…
where hens have ***** and eggshells bend
transcending Nature’s reign of fear.

The henhouse still votes hetero;
their eggless chickens cluck for rights
biologists, ex utero
are born to further futile flights.

(Because I was almost one of them
I’ve earned the right to make fun of them.
Time alone will tell if the trend
remains coherent to the end.
)
Khoisan Jul 2018
Shackled imprisoned in an oval office
Called Robben island Transformed
Unshackled twenty seven years later
Freed a nation from an apartheid regime
Inspired the world from the Grand parade
A Universal Icon Humanitarian *** laude
Now honoured in the halls of Valhalla
Glorifying God...Looks upon us
With Love from the heavenly realm
INKULULEKO AHLULA
A tribute to the late great President Nelson Mandela on his hundredth birthday
18th July 1918 to 18 July 2018
ConnectHook Sep 2015
Dear diabolic debutante / Spawn of the unfathomable abyss of blackness / Daughter of dreadful dead desire / Black-shrouded sinister sister of celestial gloom before whose imperious gaze the heavens fall silent / Whip-lash girl-child of the graves whose pallid visage kindles the myriad infernal fires / Autocratic vampiress of lunar doom whose winding-cloth enfolds the thousand horrors of blood-drenched nightmare / Thou that wanderest the cypress-crested hills of funereal necropolises / Whose icy glance cracks the ungraven tombstones of utter desolation / Empress of night and madness / Who stalks the locked and shadowed hallways of unhallowed thought / Whose burial-boat glides the still waters over Lethe’s silent depths to the unglimpsed isle of eternal mourning / Whose parapets tower above the fiefdoms of quotidian banality / Whose flying buttresses overlook the Stygian waters of the forgotten drowned denizens of damnation / Whose unshackled dungeons open to worlds of regal splendor / Whose spires pierce dark skies where oblivion buries the ruined cities of revelry under the drifting clouds of leaden time / Oh maiden of melancholic alchemy whose petrified passions transmute base metal into pure gold…

May the gibbous moon of equinox shine its baleful eye upon you; may you tread in sacramental calm the winding starlit paths of somnolent cemeteries; may my unmixed metaphors unveil in delirium their parabolic mysteries before the smoldering altar of your uninterpretable allegory; may the favor of your scorn forever lay me out, embalmed, undead, on the cold stone of merciless reality. Behold: in cryptic script of spectral apparition, in tracery of coded illumination, amidst the dawning rays of torment I write thine unknown name on the threshold of daylight. And from within the mortared wall of self I speak forth from my sepulcher the Sibylline utterance,
unsought, unheard, undreamt:

JUST WANTED TO SAY ‘HI’ !

http://tinyurl.com/og3so8a
♥♥♥
Bryce Jul 2018
Fold you up like unwanted fat
cook you into a rocky stew
placed beneath a mantle of ice
far enough away to be misconstrued

You are old laminated time
And pillowed rock of incomprehensible
Earlier than any lime
Or sand, or sediment, or any kind
You are the grandfather rock
of mine

When I step with my inconsequential feet
living but transiently
I cannot help but be erased
that even you hath but one resting place

All the plants
and sands
and ever since the very first
we have always been ******
to this earth
walking upon your bones
I am sorry we cannot do more
but you know your creator
Speak in the same language
in amalgamators
of which we have forgot
and for that I can say
we are envious; are we naught?

Build softly, and carry us upon your thick
crust like pizza dough, cooking
and you let it sit
Let us win, set us up
drift us apart, leave us crushed
build us,
make us,
break us,
fill us

I want to be restored into your
stony belt and be redeemed
I want to become my own atomic fossil
to connect with the universe through long-lost
plotholes
and once again
hear the story
as a young lad
the way it was meant to be told

I want to eat dinner with my grandfather again
my real sweet stony-chiseled cheeked
father again
to be loved a boy
and a girl
and the whole world
a soul touched back into the deep
left unshackled
by a ***** or a queen
please,
take me back soon
rather than let me turn into

Laurentia
or Baltica
or Gondwana
alack
smacked into new rock to form
Urals
and Tetons
and Moher
back

Carbonate or Silicate,
and the end its the same
It won't be the end
for that fate rearranged
Josiah W Menzies Mar 2013
You grip my throat sporadically, erratically – not often.
And trickle in through passages and pores I can’t defend.
Treacle through fingers.
But you avoid me too, and I hate it just as much.

I wait for your hand to loosen,
I breathe cool air,
Then I feel your absence.

Your gloopy venom is addictive.
I tasted you once, and now my tongue yearns,
And eats itself –
It flickers and twists and spits its serpentine-self out. In vain.
A vague, dull shadowy lustre remains,
Undulating under baited breath,
For another foul injection.

In reality I fear you. I despise you. I hate you.
If you’d only never return,
I could spit you out forever,
And tongue sweeter, healthier, more benign stuff.
No more swilling,
No more idiosyncratic sways upon social norms,
High Society and empty smiles that stifle natural intentions.

You are a disease, and far from untreated.
You are the last drag, the last hit,
The very last dose that no one actually wants.

I rebuke myself wholeheartedly
At even entertaining the idea of having you in my company. Yet there you are –

In every message, in every ransacked draw,
In every turned out rucksack, every old coat pocket,
Every ***** shirt, every unstitched button,
In every visitor’s news, every car back-seat,
Every dusty notebook, every empty fruit-bowl,
Every old, long-unseen smile, every dowsed fire,
Every man woman and child I sit across the table from.

There you are. Somehow. In some form.
Turning my sweat cold like cheap wine,
In what is otherwise an already disturbingly depressing
Struggle to maintain some kind of equilibrium or serenity,
Let alone with your smug mug cropping up scornfully uninvited.

You ****** me before I recognise you.
Helping yourself to the food on my plate with a wink,
While I do nothing as if handcuffed, and chained at the soul.
Then I move to eat.
Hand to fork.
Fork to mouth.
And it tastes of you.
It reeks of you.
And if I were anything but human,
I’d spit you out onto the kitchen floor,
Stamp on the bile you’ve stolen from me,
Burn you with kerosene,
And wage a third world war on the very concept of you ever existing.

But I am a human.
And moments later you have me
‘******* and thinking of death’
As coy and Marvellian as you like.

I indulge in full-knowing paralysis,
Lapping up your unvanquished honeyed venom,
With a voraciousness that redefines Lovesick –
Giving it a whole new meaning
Going beyond the epitome of disgust.

Enslaved, you have me smash myself against the ceiling.
And eat myself over again from within.
Consuming me like the fire I found you in.

You have me rage and conspire against those I don’t know.
But I will conspire against you one-day.
You have me hate others, but I will forever hate you.
You have me search my soul and grate it upon street corners
And the pavement of city-centres,
While you gleefully, whimsically **** my past
Or polish vain, rose-tinted hopes that without you
I’d know were futile and unjust –
Until I ruin them myself, knowing all the while
That you are the author of my unnecessary devastations.

But I will smash your green demonic skull into obsolescence
In some back-alley where none will find your
Bubbling frothing corpse.
You will be utterly repudiated even by the rats.
And the flies will drop you,
Iota
By
Iota,
Onto the tracks at Dalston to be rendered into absolute oblivion.
And I will go, a man unshackled, about my business –
Whether it be of importance or not,
It will be with a conscience cleansed.

But for now, vile sham of an emotion that you are,
I do your inglorious bidding.
Zombified and putrid, my actions smell of you.
They reek of you.

You intoxicate what should be left alone
And endured with silence and rapidity.
Yet you elongate these private, personal trails torturously,
In some sensational Cold War.

It goes without saying,
The world would be well rid of you.
Yet godlike, you endure the ages
Just as we endure you.

Perhaps Keats was too afraid to admit it –
You are the original
La Belle Dame Sans Merci.
Pluto’s daughter in persistent disguise.
To be seen presently
‘******* and thinking of death’.
Leonard Green Jul 2017
Hear ye, hear ye
hearken from the medieval times of old
where knights in the round once roamed
jousting with deeds fought in truth and honor
to protect the weak, the helpless, the oppressed
with an ideology lurking since the dawn of time
that all are born free, unshackled from contrived ordeals
only to soar high with the eagles to become one with the heavens
and bask in the glory of serving the frailty and holiness of mankind

Hear ye, hear ye
it’s Merlin conjuring a magical spell for the spirit
to behold, to marvel, new stages of self-enlightenment
where the essence of the King invades sleeping visions
possibly foretelling ominous events awaiting new missions
or predestined journeys one must endure to become so bold
in knowledge and wisdom offered, living in this world’s mold
not necessarily realized, instead shrouded with unimpeded urges
akin to the signs found in youth, immaturity, the close-minded

Hear ye, hear ye
the quest to sip from the Carpenter’s silver chalice
and taste charitable love for family, friends, and foes
where reckless pride and hatred are speared with the arrow
forged in devotion of a noble belief, tempered with selfless feats
where the sun rises and sets on the wicked actions of human nature
slaughtering the divine lights prematurely, locked within many souls
yet crusades against evil continues, no retreat, no regrets, no surrender
price to uphold the spirit of Camelot, payment in full, services rendered.
One should not fight because one wants to but one has to in order to protect life.  The taking of life should never be considered a good deed...a better way?  Change their minds...
Nico Julleza Aug 2017
∙∙∙◦◦•◎•◦◦∙∙∙
Promenade of Colors
reality ought to fade
watermarks on evening lake
the Lad idling was awake

Torments of Agony
the fear of ambiguity
a broidery of epitaph
toiling the stars up the top

Free of Delusions
impassive feelings strut
to the unknown that fogs
and hems over the mutt

Dashes of Silver
passing vessels of desolate
coxswain sighting out for love
moon bobs from the lake

Willows of Empathy
humming of Mississippi
-a friend that greets
the lake gave its peace


Signs of Eve
the breeze whispered
a wisp of eyes uncluttered
the Lad unshackled

Artistry of Sky
as spirits begins to fly
I was full astound
my purpose, now I found
#Boy #Lake #Nature #Night #Evening #Love #Self

The Lad found his Purpose. And that Purpose is to be what he wants to Be...

That Lad was Me...

(NCJ)POETRYProductions. ©2017
Nirvana - a transcendent state in which there is neither
suffering, desire, nor sense of self, and the subject
is released from the effects of karma and the cycle of
death and rebirth. It represents the final goal of Buddhism.

My Buddhist Queen,
Will you take me to Nirvana?
Will you take me to that place?
That place where we’re unshackled from suffering?
Because right now, this is intolerable.

My Buddhist Queen,
If we’re in Nirvana
why does my heart feel so aloof
and its beats, spectral?
Why does my body suffer from rigamortis?
Why am i teary-eyed
and why did you nominate my pillows to do the ALS challenge?
Why is my room a catastrophy?
Why do my walls succumb to the savagery of my fists?
Why am I suffering?
Why do I desire?
Why is karma still existant?


My Buddhist Queen,
If we’re in Nirvana,
why do you occassionally take strolls down to hell holding my hand?
- d.b.d.
nick armbrister Jan 2018
unshackled
i want to be the master of my fate
i want to be in control of my life
even if it meant i took myself to hell
i want to be in control of my life
even if it meant i was doomed
i want to be in control of my life
i want to be in control of myself
i want to be in control of my life
i want to be my own boss all the time
i want to be in control of my life
i want to guide my own ship to the rocks
i want to be in control of my life
i want to blow up my own bridges
i want to be in control of my life
i want to do my best even if i fail
i want to be in control of my life
i want to take off in a 1 winged plane
i want to be in control of my life
i want to be free even in my own jail
i want to be in control of my life
i want to be free of you and your orders
i want to be in control of my life
i want to be free to breath a single time
i want to be in control of my life
i want to be free before my execution
i want to be in control of my life
Frank DeRose Nov 2017
Ah, how perilous!
How tenuous is the hair which holds the Sword of Damocles!

How terrible it must be to lie in the seat of power,
To be cradled in her ***** of lust, ambition, and greed--
To turn endlessly over one's shoulder,
To have one eye forwards, and one eye back,
Never at ease.

When the throne becomes a death knell
A holding cell
A hotbed of restlessness,

Look up! Look up!

See the mighty sword above your head,
How it sways to and fro,
And on the hair of a mare rests your soul, your sole lifeline's thread!

You find yourself in the pit
With the pendulum swaying to and fro,
To and fro,
Closer and closer,
Closer and closer.

How terribly loathsome your position has become--
What painful prostration must you now display in self-effacing humility,
An abomination to your pride and claim of invincibility.

Ah, but what respite!

To live no longer in the shadow of fear
With the threat of death removed from above thine head
Like the unshackled chain of a man excused from the gallows

You are free!
Liberated!

But do not forget,
For the torment of power is a great responsibility,
And you'd be wise to remember that the favor of your king can change at a moment's notice--
He is a paranoid man, after all.

Behold!

The Sword of Damocles!
When released from
societal confines,
mockingly posing
as structure, newfound serenity
is confused with discord.  

Manifest inner conflicts
and God-like shadows
will be cast.  

Chains snap and allow
wounds to heal, or crush
from beyond bone.  
The absolute of life
is only grey so long
as we breathe.  
Is birth or death the light we seek?  
Are we more blind
when facing that light, or
the pure dark pitch
of silence?  

Perhaps life will dictate
this presumed ascent
or descent
before we're unleashed beyond
withering forms dancing
aimlessly on a speckle
of the universe.
AD Letwixt Oct 2018
Melodious moonlight thy clear liquid spreads
painting all in lavender hue
and moistening lips wait for the kiss of your words, muse
You sing through her parted lips your cryptic hymns and poetry,
words wound together in strange nightly meter
that twist together and shift like tree limbs tangled
and petals cast down the stream

To bathe in the rippling water
and wait for clarity to wash away the rough edges of the mind
let the stones become smooth
and mind like bowstrings, taughtened.

But the crowds protest in collective indignation
all members chained together by common trepidation
lest altars crack under the weight of strange words
and the diety's light grows dim
they sharpen what was dull and loose arrows in laughing mirth
into bodies' crooked minds uninhibited and feet unshackled

The ones in the crowd yell with groans and laughter
but they groan also with the pain of what is constant death and birth... they are resigned to their tradition's lies
and perish ten thousand times.
Nascent generations yell out in incredulity until voices become hoarse and skin turns gray, resign themselves to murmur their insolence in dreams as they whither slowly away.

But the one who, in nighttime, sings
and bestowed by muse's mind, from human lips part
words and strange poems spoken blaspheme
will live but once and one day rest
by the shifting branches and on grass by trickling stream
and not by chain's clanking arrest.
Elioinai Oct 2014
April 7th
Late one night as I walked the shore,
There came to me whispers, whispers of lore,
And there, her tail sparkling amid moonlit foam,
Arose such a lady, of mermaid kingdom,
She sang to her sisters, sang of her lover,
With tears in her eyes, the voice of a mother,
His valor was great, and his gilded gills strong,
But to quarrel with men, was where he went wrong.
One day as he swam, he met with a ship,
Swollen boards, barnacles, iron bolts rusted,
A pirate ship, not to be trusted,
And captive on board, were children for Haiti,
Who cried for their homeland, their hearts feeling weighty.
Their African voices, and African songs,
The voice of a mother, for her child she longs,
The prince’s heart broke, and he wept for his cousins,
Bound for a life of back breaking strife,
He could not leave them and return to his wife.
“From whence have you came?” His voice through a crack,
“In Fanga and Dmindi our feet were entrapped,
Our hands roughly shackled, and lips cruelly slapped.
Oh Fanga of bananas sweet, where blue sky that river meets,
Oh Dmindi, great bronze walled city, now ransacked and devoid of pity.”
“My Family!” cried the Merman, “Just a day offshore you are!”
“If I could get you back . . . do you think you’ve traveled far?”
“We cannot see the sun, don’t know when our sorrow begun.”
“Wait”! One says, “They’ve fed us twice. Two days ago we were cast off.
Surely we could travel back, and if not, in Africa we’d rather rot,
Than in this sinking, stinking ***.”
So the sea prince called his creatures many, whales and dolphins,
Turtles and sharks, in the sun they made their marks.
The Pirates on board became perplexed!
The sea was soupy, their course upset!
What could they do, with this onset?!
The Captain snarled and shook his braids,
“Of no man or beast am I afraid!”
And on his rifle his callused hand laid,
“Let war on these creatures now be made!”
Every Pirate with his gun! The captain now was having fun!
Bullets hit the water, but very few found their marks,
For there was but little marks to see, except the tracks of swimming sharks,
The sailors groaned, what magic is this?
What has happened to the fish?
That they would around our boat amass, where do we go? Oh, alas!
The day grew later and so sign was seen,
The pace was kept, for the shore they were bound,
If this keeps up, we’ll run aground!
With half-fish leading, in the front he swam
He encouraged his army, and called to his friends
“Toward Cote’d  Ivoire  we are a sailing,
Do not let your hearts be failing.”
(No pirate could hear his voice, this was the half-man’s special choice)
“I shall take you not to a harbor, but to an island inhabited by few,
With food in abundance and canoe trees for you.”
That night as the stars rose, he sang them to sleep,
In their own mother tongue, no more did they weep.
For they were surrounded by magic of love,
Love of the keeper of the sea, a father himself.
But then in the morning, the morning of slaughter.
He let his tail slip above the bright water,
The Captain roared with guffaws of cruel laughter.
“To arms again my men!” He cried,
And on that day the Merman died,
For with his dark blue back exposed,
The Captain knew the enemy he loathed,
His aim was sharp, and his propellants deadly,
A shot rang out among the medley
Of orca chants, and dolphin chirps,
And at once clouds moved across the sun.
As purple blood stained the water, the Captain shouted “We have won!”
But the race toward land didn’t slow one knot,
The outcome wasn’t changed by a single shot.
The great fish knew that their command hadn’t died and the death of their king,
Though for sure they cried, His body was dead but his word was alive.
Two porpoises left to carry his body, away to a grave, to lay with his family
To the Castle of Coral their burden did bring, to sisters to mourn and his dirge to sing,
They wrapped his long body, laid him in a cave,
Cursed the old Captain, oh **** the cold Knave!
And brothers did leave to do that hard deed, and carry the prince’s wish out.
They swam in a swarm to the creaky old Roger,
In the night they did find her,
Her crew in a bother,
And climbed they the boards that held her together,
Soon she was taken, the pirates all killed
And prisoners unshackled, as the Merman had willed
(some mermen did die, in the scuffle preceding, but most wore protection,
Their brother’s fate heeding)
The sun did arise, in the brilliant sky,
A Hero’s day! The African’s cry.
The mermen guided the vessel to shore,
And of the Queen’s story there was little more,
Except that now she sings in the evenings,
As she raises her girls and little menlings,  
No one will she find to replace her Prince,
No such lonely valor has she ever seen since.
So she sings to her sisters, under full moon waves
And calls to her cousins, on land that are slaves
That saviors will come, their own lives the cost
And vengeance will fall, happiness is not lost.
April 7th, 2012
Please forgive my unresearched work of fiction
No ethnocentrism implied, mermaids are the cousins of all humans
renseksderf Nov 2022
Is remorse a prison to the soul
the sole utterance of reproach
that if not to myself be True
the possible best in life accrue

what if regret creeps on the morning
a thief stalking the shadow of dawn
(re)fresh from bare motive drawing
crystal arteries of a day that is new

or shall we allow the mind meander
let it's "work" find itself crowning
there in its core uncover simplicity
strip away a mournful state of heart ?
previously entitle 'restless'
Kiara Malig Nov 2017
Don't worry,
When they'll be burning me to the stakes
For the true witch that I am,

When the smoke gets in my eyes,
And clouds over my judgment,

I'll tell you.
I'll tell you of who I killed-
My hopes and dreams
That I thought I unshackled for what it seems,
But didn't.  

I'll tell you of who I am,
Of who I used to be,
Of who I want to be,
And who I need to be,
But what I am now,
Is none of those things.

What I am now,
Is dying.
Eyelash Wishes Jan 2016
For years I've let your chains embrace my heart
and drag me down with every breeze
that's teased at my wings.

For years my feathers have kissed the asphalt
again and again
instead of caressing the sky.

Enough! I'm done with this! I scream
plunging my fingers into my chest
and ripping out those chains
those strings that made me
your puppet, your play thing for so long.

Though my hand comes back crimson
as the chains crumple at my feet,
my eyes flood with tears of relief, not pain.
And with the next strong gust
I am one with the sky again, myself again.
Bloodied, but stronger and finally free.
Don't let someone below you own you.  Don't let your feelings control you.  Never forget that you deserve to be happy and never get in your own way of being just that.
Michael P Smith Apr 2013
Peace
Will there ever be peace?
Or are we all headed for doom
When it comes to my life
I truly think there's no such thing
Peace has never been apart of it
Are you out of your minds?
There is no peace!
How can my people have peace
When we have nothing
There's no childhoods anymore
This is a wasteland
This is a place filled with injustice
There can be no peace
When there's war on our streets
As long as we're living in this hell
Peace will never come around
Until you clean this mess you made
The only peace I have..
Is my peace of mind
This is why I keep my weaponry
As I walk these streets
Because there will never be peace
Once again, how can we have it
When abortions are carried out
Children are thrown off buildings
When suicide is the new norm
Drugs turning neighborhoods out
Racism is still a common actuality
Young girls are ***** each night
Peace will only come
When this turmoil comes to a halt
When we are finally unshackled
When everything is back to normal
But of course we truly know
That it will get worst before better
So no need count on it
For it will never come to pass
The norm is now a storm
More like a F-5 Earthquake
Rumbling the days of our lives away
I pray constantly still..
The somehow peace can be met
Until then, I worry of me and mine
I want what the clowns on top have.
Peace! Peace! Peace!
Don't brag about us needing peace
When you're not aiding any for us
Share that peace with us
Or should I strategically say,
Provide a piece of peace...
Hollow May 2015
There would be no way
To determine it's course
Unshackled

Love, be it called
Screaming without a motive
Dripping in tears
Unrivaled in fear

Underfoot lies hate
Decaying in self deprecating
Beauty
A book
So misjudged
By it's cover

Glorious, and oh
So glorious love

To be set upon
By flights of fancy
Gold, lace and all

To be a spectacle
A beacon of the triumph
Of good over evil
Light over dark
Yin over Yang

Yang over Yin?

Silly ponderous mind
Queer that one
Would meander
Outside the box

Do not forget that poetry
Is only here to
Accommodate your
Flair

Perhaps I
Am the box

To think
Of boxes
Perfect little squares
Perfect exhibits
Of a mistrial

To wander
Look away
To see

To think of subjection

To think...
Be free, darlings.
brandon nagley Sep 2015
i.

I'm unrestricted with her
Meaning free;
I'm her, she is I, we art one
A king and his queen.

ii.

Unbounded, unshackled
Sentient in comprehension unknown to mortal creature;
We hath wing's, with moonlight ring's
A ceremony shalt be soon, with stellar feature's.

iii.

No doctor's, nor teacher's
We art ourn own healer's;
We art different than the rest
We shalt overcometh devil's, and demonic test's.

iv.

For tis I am blessed
To knoweth such an empress to mine throne;
She reside's in every space of this poetic mind
She maketh me seeith when I'm blind, speaketh when I'm mute

For tis
She's mine home.



©Brandon nagley
©Earl Jane nagley dedication
©Lonesome poet's poetry
Jacqe Booth Nov 2010
Sitting, restless

In this changeling

Sensation

Of freshness and renewal.

Running

Rat on a wheel.

Each passing day

A different way

Of feeling,

An altered state of mind.

Seeking

To find

A man within the boy.

Hoping to see

The real me.

Alive and kicking.

Hot flushed, this post determined puberty

And the desperate need to feel.

An urgent angst to Be.

Short fuse and temper flare.

I’m not really there

Yet still somehow

Everywhere and

Everything;

Else breathing.

Dysmorphic chest

Heaving

Exigency

In this

Juncture

Soul puncture,

And bloodied bandaids

Cast off

My heart

Once worn on my sleeve.

I am finger skin,

Flesh and nail

Torn

And jagged edges

Peeling.

Perplexity kneeling,

I am deeply lost inside of me.

Begging to be found.

Compund; unbound.

They say that beggars can’t be choosers

Only losers left to dreaming.

They also say

That I may be a dreamer

But I’m not the only one.

I will come undone in this undoing.

Eschewing

A life lived unalive.

Slow unravel

To once again

Begin

To belong in this

Skin

Stitched bleeding riches

To my bare and brittle bone  

He is not alone

I feel him

Running

Waiting

Sating disquietude

With an attitude

Unshackled

He is not running

Rather feet flying

A rat inside

A wheel.
Elizabeth Jul 2019
Lying in the ground, entangled,
lost in a thoughtless trance-
there is no need to hide,  
I shut my eyes.
Seduced by the sight of color,
persuasive in its attempt to bridge us together.

We are lured in,
there are no promises,
no spectre of thought.
Remind me its today.

The cold ground beneath,
carrying the weight of my tender heart,
unshackled by the grip of your starving hands; touch me.
Your hand slowly slip under my skirt,
pulling down my sweet intimate.
A sensational rapture,
—loud as the clouds,
a maddening sound.
Envelop the day like a tension film
--desperate to penetrate the savage sun,
Foolish, undoubtedly foolish.
serenade me under the shade, my little fire.

I could hardly breathe.
I suffer sweetly in your hands,
helpless, glued to the ground, frustrated,
annihilated by the movement of your hand,
those fumbling fingers tracing my delicate skin...
I weep your name, my darling !

I hear the world’s lust,
clandestine eyes watching us,  
Ignorant of the world were in.
Ignorant of the world I’m in,
drowning in your gaze-
I witness the world’s miracle-
Its electric than the pinnacle.

my sweet teeth.
what a sentimental thrill to be close to you this way-
gnarling, exposed for the taking.

You go deeper,
reach higher,
my toes curling,
body reluctantly surrender,
hands crawl,
knees start to shudder,
eyes start to water, I cant move.
do you hear me my lover?
I'm begging, whispering,
but this time for more.
blind me again, and again, and again.

I kiss you gently, roughly, then all at once.
The sun boiling at the palm of my hands,
holding me down in prayer,
my screams start to clutter,
body start to simmer,
lights start to flicker,
I keep my eyes shut.

I no longer need reminding.
Keep me alive in this place.
Ann M Johnson Nov 2014
Unchained I hear the melody
Unshackled I can dance again
Unbound I am breaking free
from the cocoon that held me
down
Free to be the Butterfly
mEb Sep 2010
Some recite distant waves of their time lines in a scatter
Repressed memories that come and go and fluculate with chaos
Mine are in order, like a precise file cabinet of a New York court house A through Z
1 to a million plus more filed in rigid manor
The room they lie in remains untouched on most occasions
It’s rare for me to make a visit,
But the grey cast of pulverous dust keeps people away
Including myself
Oddly enough, I wish I had the time to extinguish those files,
And completely erase everything that exists
And co-exists together within label
To revive and produce anew set of secrets
That bask in a solar energy structured room
With windows of 8 feet in height or more
So that the sun can give off a plentiful suppelment of vitamins
To keep the energy alive
To have nothing to hide
And showcase my pieces elegantly
For everyday shoppers to stop and glance,
A few applauds here and there as well
To jazz the setting up a tad
But unlike like most
I place the past so far back
It’s like the Rossetta Stone
Before she was found
All over again
When it’s finally discovered, I warn,
It will be rickety and impassible for any eyes,
News papers,
Or media to surpass
Almost as if a high ranked prison
Has just unshackled it’s most dangerous inmate
Set free on good behavior
How unfair the system can be, let alone unnerving
For now my files stay clouded and sunk
Farther than the Marianas Trench
With thousands of species undiscovered
Inaccessible to even think about attaining
So don’t worry about my inner demon being unleashed
Good behavior on good,
It's always on it’s worst.
John Prophet Mar 2019
A world
beyond.
Dreamland
unbounded.
A vision of
grander
vistas.
Vistas
unshackled by
the senses.
Senses that
limit our
vision, our
reach.
The senses
tell us
this is
all there is.
Five senses
dictates!
Dictates
reality.
Dictates
all that
is seen and
known.
Dreamland shows
otherwise.
Dreamland
takes us to
other realms,
other times.
No limits!
No limits
to a
richer
reality.
A reality
beyond the
senses.
Dreamland,
a sixth
sense,
a window
to infinity!
Madds Feb 2022
It was my birthday.
And the first thing i could say to my coworkers when I saw them after was
“I didn’t cry”

And it’s true.
For the first time in 25 years
I can genuinely say I’m happy
And I had an amazing day.

I didn’t cry,
I smiled and laughed,
Had fun
And felt like myself.
Free, happy, unshackled.

I’m happy.
It took a while,
It took some tears,
It took pain,
It took blood,
But I am happy.
So extremely me
And so ******* happy.
This is the second draft of this because this website buckled and didn’t save the first
Senor Negativo Aug 2012
On a smooth cushion of silken air

I stand moderately off kilter.

We are elated and healed

Everyone is astounded.

We stood there like living sculpture,

We fed each other hope and affection.

I will kiss you eternally

I will never treat you like a slug.

On a smooth silken cushion of air,

Standing moderately off kilter

I don't get rude comments,

From adults, strangers, enemies and teenagers.

Everyone greets us with Hello, hello.

And then laughter hijacks my mouth.

You have been unshackled

Their death, my life, our cradle,

Our bodies, our souls unfettered.

On a smooth silken cushion of air

We will lay, moderately off kilter.
Ken Pepiton Nov 2018
there may be a time when I'm removed far enough

… but no, not today, today, I ask
new mercies, and
I recall, that's on auto. Hapsthappeneverday kinda thing.
Time after time.
That is a miracle, time.

Really smart
people, that class that feels included in the
we, the
people, politico-intellect-ism trend sect,
they think the math is there to prove

time is
what clocks do, (Royal Institute Youtube watch it)
                                                  
that we,
that ain't me, ye see, I got

removed far enough
to see the blurry
next res
bigger picture more pixels than an eye is said able to see

So for everlasting ideas,
like hell and
heaven,  

the re act
to my act is the power
to act. Eternal motion as perpetual
as can be imagined by mortals, for sure.

Get it together or you leave a huge hole in the fabric of reality JBP

play the role your hand finds dealt,
your special way,
words count inbetween the sayer/hearer
the idle wons are wins not worth the weight, don't fight
the value system that makes life spirial,
swirl of a wand, mathematically
bowing to magi
Fibbo, go viral
with my wind.

this is your life role,
the one in eight billion role.
the star of the show as the hero of hormone wars.
it's all in your head,

how did it *** there, howditgit
this way
this is crazy. No, you never saw crazy, old dude.

Ya had yo'own knows sparkin' at the grindstone,

whet the edge,
or put to more labor..

removed
far enough from this world

my bubble
is in it not of it,
… since 1970. No ****. Outathis world…

Crazy was the melding  from the sixties to…

I was thinking, to about the mid-eighties, but
now,
you and I, we travelled to the beat of several
different drums.
Olde dude,

If you put your nose to the grind, ******
you may have missed,
in fifty years,
more
than you imagined, now, is a new day time.

Some seed never sown back when, can be sown and
grown right,
now.
That's good.
I'd say some words I've helped be heard have

made the world some better'nitwas when we stopped.

time to roll.

Sisyphus, right. 'Never missed a trick time
it takes to roll the rock up,
then in between tick time
to roll the rock up,

onus minus the roll down, the unshackled wireless
inbetween shameless blameless
imagine
happy ever after…
How?
Pretend, the end.

Push, happy as hell.
tick, time
to roll the rock up,

Incorrectness of value of value from the gitgo,
like buttoning your shirt wrong from the first button,
as soon as you fix it, it's fixed.

Nothin' you can do?
Do nothin'.

Think, Sisyphus, happy

Happy he's not in that time we are so removed from
now
slow and steady kinda wins the race, she said that,

Ben or me? Where does the thread un-ravel?

Extended time model, Rogan in the back ground,
what myth has the fear factor guy,
a little short power-lifter-kick boxer guy,
some smart, quick of wit, a hunter,

who was asked, in Thailand,
Have you seen the true beauty of the elephant?
I was asked that, in Thailand,
by a saffroned monk at a kickboxing match
in the jungle in 1968.
Synchroni-city or what?

Who could steer it's  hearing
by a clock and fail

to hear the rhythm of the rock rolling down the hill,
inbetween
the tick…

Sisyphus says time is more effective,

if-ity-ish when,
and only then, when ticks hapt to be

at the very point of return
time
the roll back
no rush, no dread no worry, imagine

time ticks at the sharpest point of the story
at the very very very tippy top
point in time

defining you.
Shame, sticks to you like tar.
Marilyn and Monica and Marla and all

Fame to blame, to shame for being  a believer that
there may be a time when I'm removed far enough

to ignor my own ignorance and innocence
of ideas that possessed
fools

A murderous assault on your attention span,
musicals, those people really live near enough my bubble,
that I can find
ripples

from decades I missed, this is 2018, how can it get better?

The grand wizard cat. pop. elephants are so sweet,
dam,
rewound. Really,
cool, I know what he says next, it's funny before it's funny.

Today is a real good day to get away. Binging Rogan,
testing a mystery fruct-ification
of a single seed from
a sack 'shake.

----
As you move forward in time how do you measure

progress
lo-res thinking, 72 dpi 1984 Macintosh. Hello

now there is reality at the speed of thought, imagine

this was once the speed of thought.

===
why are you in pain? Do you know any lies you believe?
Do you
urge others to suspend their un-belief
to hear you think

listen
ridiculously (is that a good word)

listen, people become interesting, from a distance,
thank you,
I'''''''''''''''''''''''''''''
Earlier on the Sisyphus Happy channel
Paul Sands Apr 2015
unshackled hearts
are easily lost
as they wander
in a haphazard dance of
bewildered wonder
KM Ramsey Apr 2015
you say it's not about the ***
but the declaration does nothing
to ***** the boiling terror
to shoo away that yawning hole
digging deeper and deeper
into the root system of my ribs
tilling the lush soil that is
my traitorous stomach
and ever shrinking lungs
it uproots me
grinds the stump where I once stood
a towering oak
or was I only ever a sapling
that was snapped in half
severed the exact moment
that the floodgates opened
and the raging storms remnants
poured forth unshackled by the walls
I carefully constructed around my trembling heart
how I screamed when they fell
the resounding crash
of my fingers digging into your back
pulling you closer
and closer
I can't stop wanting you closer
to inhabit that feeling
the safety of a harbor in a storm
you somehow can protect me
from the radioactive wasteland
that I am still traversing
dodging gamma rays of manic frenzy
and alpha particles heavy with the
black hole that swears it will consume all of me
its final sacrifice demanded my life
how can I trust this?
when the reality of the matter is
you are no lead apron
absorbing the radiation for me
some kevlar vest that can ever protect me
from the bullets of vitriolic bile I hurl inward
not to mention grenades thrown my way
by wayward neural firings
which find me craving my blood
a box of razors is
a box of friends
and reality diverges into an orthogonal plane.
you could be snatched from me
you are a small worm on
the biggest hook to make the juiciest
most succulent amuse bouche
for a big world of sharks
how ******* stupid am I
to be a fisherwoman who has
fallen in love with her bait?
Obsession, you’re my ***** word
my secret, wanton lust
for I can think of no-one else
to have you, oh! I must.

But when satiated
shaken to my core
obsession ups and leaves me
I don’t want you anymore.

So, call me fickle, darlin’
just as you always do
I’m not fickle, just bedevilled
occasionally by you.

Though, you ain’t my only hang up
don’t go thinking that you are
I’ve a lifetime of obsessions
and you’re not the best, by far.

Not all are made of flesh and bone
some have no soul at all
but I host their hauntings just the same
always at their beck and call.

I’m helpless to their honeyed charms
so easily am I led
take me by the hand, my love,
keep my obsession fed.

Come, wrap me in your many limbs
pour your magic in my ear
captivate, infatuate
for as long as I am here.

Then I twist my form unshackled
alight and fade away
and you must wait, unknowing,
for only time can say.

If I shall visit you again
one small fancy of my flights
but keep my name upon your lips
‘til my next obsession strikes.
I am obsessed with so many things, for so fleeting a moment, that it's a wonder I get anything done at all.

— The End —